


Trespass

by o2doko



Category: Speed Racer (2008)
Genre: F/M, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-13
Updated: 2011-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-15 15:20:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/o2doko/pseuds/o2doko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the Racer household, there's only one woman fast enough to run with the boys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trespass

They profess to listen to her, attentive to her needs, but what they don't realize is that she listens back.

 

Pops is the creator, and his large, rough hands caress her with the satisfaction of a job well done. They all see it; the pride he takes in her care, the spot of honor he reserves for her in his garage. Built for one child, she has become the vehicle of another, and the mechanic places as much of his hopes into her slender frame as he does on the squared shoulders of his second-born. They know all this; she knows more. She knows how he steals to her in the iron grip of a sleepless night - not to the television, not to the ice box, but to _her_ \- the sudden lightness in his large-boned hands as they tenderly palm her scrapes, the scent of grease and gasoline forever imprinted into the whorls of his singed fingertips. She knows how he closes his eyes and imagines what it would be like if each of her wounds had instead been inflicted on his child - the way his breath catches in fear, the way his fingers tighten in guilt, the way he has to sit down in her front seat - the passenger's seat, never the driver - to combat his sudden sense of vertigo. She knows that the careful hands he glides over her dashboard, craftsman's hands, quiet and knowing, are full of proud thanks, that he sees her as an extension of himself, a protective barrier to further the aims of his children where he alone is not enough. He weaves his heavy dreams and whisper-damp prayers into each part he makes for her, making her beautiful, making her strong, making her worthy.

He steals away guiltily from the warmth of his sleeping wife to whisper his fears to her, and she folds them quietly into herself and keeps his secrets.

Spritle's touch is hesitant, tentative, but no less familiar. The worship in his large eyes is mirrored back to him from her glossy white paint, and while they know he sometimes stows himself away in her trunk to accompany his older brother on a mission, they don't know that he, too, comes to her at night. She knows the feel of his peanut-butter-and-jelly stained fingers clutching tightly at the lip of her trunk for reassurance, the soft hitch in his breathing when he curls up in her back seat after another nightmare chases him from his bed. She knows that, while he smiles by day, his face laughter-bright and brave, he sobs quietly into her leather cushions in the dark, smelling of sweat and fear and despair. His attentions are all for her womb-like interior, somewhere to curl up and hide when the rest of the world just becomes too much, and his pudgy fingers are gentle and affectionate as he strokes the seat cover beside his head. One might expect a boy with so much hero-worship for his older brother to climb into her driver's seat, play at victor when no one's watching - but he never does. That seat is sacred, special, and his quiet awe cuts through his youthful energy. Her solid lines cast flickers of shadow on his face in the dark, outlining the angles of the man he is starting to become.

He abandons his happy facade on his bedside table to brush his cheek against her glossy hide, and she supports his exhausted body without fear or reprimand.

No mask can fool her - she knows the subtle caress of Rex's fingers, the reverence in the ripple of his well-worn hands. He touches her with the loving familiarity of a long lost friend, quiet and wistful, as gentle and careful as his car is rough and hard. There's so much he can't say now, to Speed, to Inspector Detector, to anyone, but she knows it all - he maps it out in the artful designs he draws over her hood, the longing, ghostly contact he steals when he thinks no one is looking. He is one of the two Racer males to recognize her as a living thing, and he strokes her as though he expects her to purr. Rex can't come to her in the night anymore, but he never fails to get out of his car at the end of one of their races. No matter what's going on with him and his younger brother, whether they'll speak, whether they'll touch, he always has a hand for the car that once belonged to him. His touch is tender over her bruises, as though wary of inflicting pain, especially the ones he causes - his love for her speaks more to his true identity than anything else.

He stands beside her beneath the cold stars, briefly shedding _all_ masks - but only to her. And she purrs in acknowledgment of who he is, the last bit of home he allows himself to claim.

She knows Speed the best. She knows every contour of his whipcord body, pressed slick and hot against her curves. She knows the strength in his hands as they grip her steering wheel, palm grinding down on her gear shaft, the sound of his hoarse cries of release ripped ragged over tightly clenched teeth. She knows his mind, she knows the scent of his blood, she knows the pulse of his racing heart. She protects him, loves him, becomes part of him - and in return, he lets her fly. The others steal to her at night before returning to counterparts more than shadow - Pops to Mrs. Racer, Spritle to Chim Chim, Rex to the Shooting Star. But Speed belongs to her and her alone, by day and by night, loving her for what she represents, yes, but also for the steel and the rubber and the fire that rests at her core. And she does more than purr for him. She arches and aches, twists and writhes, blurs the edges of all the constraints fighting to hold him back. She swallows his anger and his helplessness and surrenders everything into his control, enfolding him when he needs to cry, slamming him around each turn when he needs to run. And she knows his secrets, too - how he bites viciously into the heel of his own hand when he drops everything in the straightaway, forced to watch some other driver steal the winner's circle; how his rage sometimes takes over, making his hands sharp and aggressive on the wheel, though he'll wear a smile when he finally steps out of the car; how his pulse quickens and he wets his lips in a brief flicker of fear every time he watches someone else's car strike flames against the unforgiving walls of the stadium; how he tenderly kisses Trixie in the front seat before letting X fuck him raw in the back.

He sprawls out across her hood, shivering as the night air laps away his sweat, and his mind is completely, blessedly blank. He makes no confessions, searches for no reassurance - there is nothing he can tell her that she doesn't already know.

Sometimes Mrs. Racer eyes her askance while she's making breakfast, and sometimes Trixie's pat isn't so kind. Maybe it's because they _know_. The Mach 5 has felt the press of all three men's lips, the caress of their hands, smudged insubstantial under the light of their victories and the shadows of their fears. In a family that sets so much stock in a thrumming engine and a good set of tires, only one female in the Racer household is strong enough to run with the boys.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'm currently accepting commissions; see my [gig page](http://fiverr.com/users/o2doko/gigs/write-an-original-5000-word-story-in-any-genre) for more information.


End file.
